The morning sun rose over the jagged limestone crests of the High Karst, spilling cold, amber light across the market square of Split-Stone.
Where the square had been an empty expanse of wind-blown dust and dried sheep dung three days before, it was now packed with twelve hundred men and women from across the three valleys. Smallholders in patched frieze smocks stood shoulder to shoulder with orchardists from Oakhaven, canal ditch-reeves from Canton Vane, and draymen from the mountain roadhouses. They carried no swords, pikes, or hunting crossbows. Their calloused hands held only the tools of their daily labor. It was heavy ash spade handles, iron pruning hooks, hay-forks, ditch-shovels, and hazel walking staffs.
Tomas Reed stood upon the broad stone steps of the ancient market cross, his ash-wood pack frame resting against the weathered limestone stone stand.
His left wrist was cinched tight in its calfskin brace. The three brass buckles were shining in the early sun. The brutal jacking of Pier Six during the night had left his left forearm stiff and aching, the scarred gristle throbbing with deep muscular tiredness. But Tomas kept his stance upright. Nine years of hauling eighty-pound pack-loads across the wet cellars of Low Bellwether had conditioned his body to absorb physical fatigue without yielding his balance. His right hand rested easily on his iron-shod hazel staff. At the same time, his left thumb was hooked beneath the shoulder strap of his leather harness. It took the pressure off his damaged forearm.
